


S̴̢̞̩͎̋͊̚i̵̳͕̙̐̀͗ͅl̵̦̳̦̇̐̈́v̸̺̻̝̲̼̐̓e̴͍͉̍͗͌r̷̬͕̰͉̣̋͑͋͠ ̶̲́̐̕F̸̨̩̯̙̎o̵͎̟͓͉̓̕x̵̙́̽ ̶̙̪̻͓̔̽̀̃

by JackalPinesOfHouseEvergreen



Category: Gravity Falls, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anger, Blood and Violence, Criminal Stan, Demonic Possession, Emotions, Evil Grunkle Stan, Grunkle Stan-centric, Gun Violence, Hatred, Hunters & Hunting, I Don't Even Know, Journals, Mob Boss Grunkle Stan, Murder, Nogitsune Effects, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Revenge, Self-Hatred, Smart Grunkle Stan, Suicidal Thoughts, Supernatural Mob Boss Grunkle Stan, Tags May Change, Triggers, Violence, journal 1 - Freeform, possessed stan, possible triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-10-23 20:40:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10726809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackalPinesOfHouseEvergreen/pseuds/JackalPinesOfHouseEvergreen
Summary: The argument turns out different and Stan actually leaves with Journal 1. But rather than take it all the way across the world, Stan planned to just bury it under some tree in California. The weirdness of the journal sparked the Nemeton back to life and awakened the Nogitsune, who latched itself to the closest vessel possible.Stan, unaware of it at first, takes new interest in the journal. Studies it. Learns from it...goes and fixes a few of his mistakes. No longer blaming Ford or his Pa or anyone else for his life and decides to clean it up the only way he knew how. He delves deeper into madness but life's never been better, or his mind clearer. The one journal isn't enough but he doesn't risk going to see his brother again. He hunts down hunters and steals their journals. He builds an empire of supernatural criminals whose loyalty he gains by killing hunters.It's years later when Ford and Stan reunite.





	S̴̢̞̩͎̋͊̚i̵̳͕̙̐̀͗ͅl̵̦̳̦̇̐̈́v̸̺̻̝̲̼̐̓e̴͍͉̍͗͌r̷̬͕̰͉̣̋͑͋͠ ̶̲́̐̕F̸̨̩̯̙̎o̵͎̟͓͉̓̕x̵̙́̽ ̶̙̪̻͓̔̽̀̃

Ford and Stan argue, after not seeing each other for over a decade and this is what brings them together, it's impossible not to argue. But Stan was tired in too many ways to keep it going. With a growl that was almost nonhuman, he grabs the stupid journal his brother gives him and storms out of the cabin. 

He's spiteful angry and he takes the damn book to California instead of across the world like Ford wanted. Part of him was tempted to just throw it out the window as he drove but then guilt would eat at him. He knew Ford would want his stupid book back, which was secretly another reason why he didn't want to take it too far. If needed, Ford could drive to California. 

Stan himself had been there before, Beacon Hills, and heard some weird stuff about some old Wicca praying tree that used to be a hit but not anymore. Seemed like a damn good place he'd remember should his brother call him again to get his journal back. Plus with all the weirdo stuff written inside, it just seemed like a match made in heaven. 

He was going to bury it and get back to his miserable life and damned attempts to make money.

But the book began to hum and vibrate as he got closer to the stump. He did his best to ignore it and not sound like Ford's insane ramblings...

Overheard the clouds blocked any moon rays that could come through, and the winds picks up to a harsh coldness. Stan just wanted to get this over with.

He finally found the stupid stump after another half hour of trudging through the dark...so naturally he had to be struck by lightning. 

* * *

  _ **"Let's  play a game."**_

Stan inhaled sharply before looking around wildly. A stretch of clear nothingness seemed to go on for miles. For a moment he couldn't remember where he was, what he was doing, or even... _who_ he was.

_**"Did you ever know?  Many ssssstruggle with their identitiessss...but more ssssso one like you who had a better reflection in the flessssh."** _

_"Who...who are you? Where am I!?"_ Stan demanded, still trying to find the source of the voice. Stan blinked just once and there, stood another being. Someone wearing a bomber jacket and bandages around his face. Despite what must be a nasty injury, the man's mouth slit gave off a creepy smirk. 

_**"You're in your mindsssscape, Sssstanley. Let's play a game."** _

_"I...I don't want to play a game! I wanna get the hell outta here! I got shit to do!"_ He barked and out of nowhere, a book appeared in his hands and he remembered what it was he was doing moments before.

_**"Your brother...gave you that book. It'ssss yourssss. Why bury it? Why not keep it?"** _

_"Why the hell would I want a book?"_

_**"Power."** _

_"This is just my brother's damn science mumbo jumbo ramblings. It means crap to me!"_ Stan argued. 

_**"Then why not destroy it? Because your brother cares for it? Why not read through, understand your brother's mind by his ramblings."** _

_"Why do you care about this again?"_

The creature smirked before chuckling and seemingly dropping the previous conversation repeated it's first statement.  _ **"Let's play a game."**_

Stan sighed. He's been in enough of these situations to know when something needed to be played out  before they could continue. " _Alright...what game do you wanna play? Make it quick, I ain't got all day."_

_**"Answer some riddles for me."**  
_

_"Really? Ugh, fine! Chop-chop though!"_

**_"What gets bigger the more you take away?"_ **

_"A hole, jackass."_ He had a cellmate who liked to randomly ask him shit like that.

**_"What gets wetter the more it dries?"_ **

_"Duh, a towel!"_ He cheated and read an entire riddle's book once out of boredom.

**_"When is a door, not a door?"_ **

_"Uh...a...oh! Ajar!"_ Of course that was awhile a go.

**_"Everyone has it, but no one can lose it. What is it?"_ **

Stan watched as the thing began to remove its bandages and he began to feel a little grossed out. 

_**"Everyone has it, but no one can lose it. What is it, Stanley?"** _

_"How do you know my name?"_ Stan demanded. He barely remembered who he was, let alone remembering telling this thing who he was. 

**_"Everyone had it! But no one can lose it! WHAT IS IT?"_ **

_"A SHADOW, YOU FUCKER!"_ Stan yelled in a panic. Just as he did, the bandages slid off. Rather than the bomber jacket and jeans, the thing now wore a torn up and dirty suit and looked exactly like him. Stan was used to seeing someone else in the flesh look like him but this was different. Ford, though his twin, was another person. This thing in front of him though...  _"What...what are you?"_

**_"Your shadow."_ **

* * *

 Stan groaned as he woke up on the cold, hard ground of the forest floor. He swore it barely became night but as he stood up, he had to block the annoying bright rays of sun that were hitting his face. The birds chirping happily on the tree branches were making his headache worse. 

God, how much did he drink last night? 

Moving his hand, he felt something, looking down he saw his brother's journal. Memories of going to see Ford were coming back but afterwards was kind of blurry. He thinks he remembers he should be angry and spiteful. His hands itched to reach for his lighter and set the thing on fire. Then he stilled. Something in him screamed that it was the wrong move. He opened it and skimmed through the book...it all seemed like gibberish to him. 

He had no idea what the hell possessed him to sit down and read through a few pages, but he did. Slowly he began to understand a few things. They were wild concepts indeed. But it was weird...

"How the hell do I understand this?"

His voice was gruff and echoed slightly through the clearing. No one but the birds answered him before a shiver violently rocked him. He should probably get out of there before he caught his death. 

He began his walk back to his car. Every once in a while he would swat away a firebug that would try to land on his face. 

* * *

 The streets were crowded enough that Stan managed to pickpocket a few passing strangers and get some cash for some actual food. He dumped the wallets in a dumpster as he used the alley ways as a short cut and walked into the first food joint he passed. 

He got a table in the back with the most solitude and faced away from the other patrons. The waitress arrived shortly and looked at him with a wary smile. It was clear she didn't really want to serve him but it wasn't anything new. He pointed to the picture on the front, letting her get this over with, with as little problem as possible. "That. And coffee. Bring me a whole pot." 

She scribbled in her note pad and eyed him a moment longer. Her mouth opened as if to say something but whatever she was going to say, it was replaced with. "Coming right up!"

 _'That was weird_.' Stan thought. But he ignored it. He was prepared to have the manager come over and ask him to leave or at least show his method of payment. 

But until said manager arrived with that scenario, Stan pulled out the journal and began to read more and more through it. There was this weird ache in the back of his head. It wasn't like a hangover, and it wasn't like a concussion either. 

"Your coffee, sir." The waitress was back with his pot and cup. She served him his first glass and then stood there looking at him. 

Stan did his best to ignore it until he couldn't. Sliding her an irritated look he said. "You want proof if I can pay for it, sweetheart?"

"What? No! I mean...just...do you need us to call someone?" She asked awkwardly. 

Stan raised an eyebrow at her in utter confusion. She pointed towards the window where he could see his reflection clearly. He now saw why she was so....'worried'. The edges of his clothes were burned off, patches and holes littered every layer of clothing he had. His hair was fucked up seven ways to Sunday, he looked pale, and had dark circles under his eyes as if he hasn't slept in over a decade. 

"I...I'm fine. Been traveling from coast to coast. Almost home. Clothing got limited and well...traveling isn't as easy as some think it is. Just need some grub and coffee. I'll be fine, thanks." He knew people and how they worked. Be stubborn and argue against them and they'll argue back. Promise it ain't as bad as they think and they feel better. Less guilty. He'll eat and then go read the rest of the journal in peace. 

"Ah okay. So...it's not a scar but a tattoo?" She asked cautiously. It gained her another raised eyebrow look and she pointed to his neck. 

Stan turned to his reflection and pulled his parka away a bit to see more of his neck and saw that yeah...he had a scar. A lightning tree root looking scar. 

Images flashed before his mind's eye. Pure whiteness, a large tree trunk, a bandaged monster, and another version of himself. 

"Sir?"

"I'm fine!" Stan insisted, this time showing off his irritation. He grabbed the book and stood up. "Forget it. Cancel the order."

"Sir, wait! I didn-"

"Can it!" Stan gruffed out before he stormed out of the diner. 

He wasn't even a block away when someone grabbed the hood of his parka and yanked him back. It choked him for a bit and made the zipper eat part of his skin, which hurt like hell. He turned to glare at his attacker and saw it was some biker dude he passed in the diner. 

"I didn't like the way you talked to that lady." 

"Well she shouldn'ta been all up in my business. I know I look like crap, that wasn't her job. Her job was to serve my food and leave me alone and she sucked at that, so screw off, I ain't in the mood."

"I'm gonna teach you a lesson about being polite to service folk, you fucker." The biker dude raised his hand to punch him. 

Stan braced himself as he had flashbacks to his time in prison, dealing with Rico and his goons. He could take a beating from some Californian biker and still feel better than he did this morning!

At that moment, a damn firebug passed his eyes and something flared inside of him. 

He caught the punch and shared a shocked and confused expression with the biker. But his face quickly turned to one of anger. More memories of his time running from Rico and the debt he had coursed through him. The things he had to do to try and make the money he owed. The _favors_ and _jobs_ he had to perform to keep his head or fingers. 

He heard a gross _crack_ sound and his eyes narrowed on the fist in his hand and the wrist he twisted in weird and disgusting angle. The biker yelled as he pulled back, but Stan wasn't finished. He punched the biker with so much force he didn't know he had, that one punch was all that was needed for the biker to land on the ground unconscious. 

Sirens were heard heading that way. But Stan was already heading in the other direction to his car and away from California. 

* * *

  _"What's happening to me?"_

**_"You're fixing your life."_ **

_"I can't fix it. It's too broken. And I ain't good at fixin'. Only breaking."_

**_"Those who say that are a problem. Your problem...get rid of them."_ **

Stan scoffed, " _How the hell am I gonna do that?"_

 ** _"With help from a_** _ **friend**..." _ His other self replied with a smirk.

_"I ain't got any friends."_

**_"You got me, Ssstan. We are one. We will help."_ **

_"Heh. I...I guess being problem free won't be too bad a life. What do I do?"_

_**"We're ssstill building trusssst, Ssstan. I've been dormant for too long. We gotta walk before we can run. I'm here. When you're awake, you won't know...yet you'll feel me close. Trussst in me, Ssstan. I'll make all your problemsss go away."** _

* * *

 Stan drove. 

He drove far and long with very little rest. 

Not sleeping wasn't new but unlike before the tiredness that usually weighed him down like an anchor wasn't present. He wasn't going to question it and let it keep fueling. 

By his side was Ford's journal. He found some damn interesting things in there that he still didn't fully understand why he was so interested in it, but he was. He even got a notebook of his own and made notes based on Ford's notes. He can't really remember writing most of it, but it's his hand writing. 

After he stopped to fuel and change his clothes when he remembered what his appearance caused at the diner, he decided to do something with his hair. 

At the convenience store he bought some scissors, a plain white t-shirt, and some sweat pants. Heading to the bathroom he locked the door behind him and changed into the clean clothing. He stared into his reflection, and as creepy as it sounded it looked like his reflection was looking back at him. 

He kind of growled at the gut that had formed after too many beers and junk food passing as his meals. His skin was dry and littered with ache that wasn't as bad as when he was a teenager but still present. 

And that _mullet_! 

"No more problems." He said aloud as he picked up the scissors and cut off his hair. 

* * *

 " _Why can't I remember you when I'm awake?"_

_**"It'sss better that way."**  
_

_"Why?"_

**_"You're not as dumb as you play yourself out to be, Ssstan. But there isss ssstill much for you to learn. And you are. We're sssharing. We're learning. Sssoon. You will be aware of our power."_ **

Stan shrugged. Whatever. So long as things kept going his way.  _"So. What's next?"_

**_"Time to deal with your debt."_ **

* * *

 Stan ran his hand through the lightning scar that reached around his neck, almost like a hand choking him. The first few days on the road he realized they were a fresh, angry red that slowly dimmed until they became similar to stretch marks. He momentarily questioned if the healing was a bit too fast, but he didn't linger too much on it. 

As he drives he wonders about his suicidal tendencies. It's not like he hasn't had them. The thoughts at least. His life was anything but ideal. He's known starvation, desperation, humiliation, and so many other low points of humanity. He has hurt to the point that he just wants it all to _stop_!

He has started too closely at the barrel of his own gun far more times than he's cared to count. 

Obviously he's never gone through it, but there had been some close times. 

Yet this was different. 

At the end of this, logically speaking...he'll end up dead. But there was no fear stopping him. 

* * *

_**1 Year Later** _

* * *

**" _There'ss no reasssoning with danger. You dessstroy it, or it dessstroyss you."_**

_"Hey, hey wait a minute...I'm many things. Low life, crappy things, but I'm not a murderer!"_

**_"Not yet."_ **

_"I can't do this! You can't make me!"_

**_"Do you want to be free, Ssstanley?"_ **

_"I..."_

**_"Isss Rico a good man?"_ **

_"I mean..."_

**_"How often has he nearly killed you?"_ **

_"I owe him money."_

**_"You owe him nothing. Death is inevitable...but do you want to die for that piece of garbage?"_ **

_"I...I don't...I don't want to die, period!"_

**_"Then don't."_ **

_"I can't do this."_ Stanley insisted.

**_"Yes we can. Trussst me, Ssstanley."_ **

_"...okay. I trust ya."_

* * *

"I'm going to fuck you over and make it hurt for this you stupid shit!" Rico growled.

He took a threatening step forward but Stanley cocked the gun.

"Hope you enjoyed your last cigar, Rico. Cos it _was_ your last." 

_BANG!_

Rico's body dropped to the floor with a heavy thud. Stan lowered the gun just as the doors screeched open and Rico's men burst through. All their guns raised and pointed at Stan's head. 

Stan took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them he grinned lightly as he saw a firebug float in front of his face. 

"Who here wants to **play a game**?"

* * *

  _ **10 Years Later**_

* * *

 

A sleek black limo slowed down into a stop in front of the pawn shop. Filbrick stopped what he was doing to admire the luxury because he couldn't help himself. He was a man who craved success and only admired and respected others who had gained it. Should said successful people want to visit his establishment, then that was just a good day all around. 

The driver of the limo stepped out and hurried to open the door for whoever was in the back and Filbrick watched as a man in a fine tailored three piece suit stepped out. The man was clean shaven, had a neat haircut, wore thin square framed glasses, and walked with a cane despite not needing it. 

It took him a second too long to recognize the face of the man, but any doubt left his mind when the man spoke. 

"Hiya Pa. Miss me?"

" _Stan_?"

"What? Don't recognize me? It's only been two decades, come on Pa." Stan's smirk was cold and matched his gaze. Whatever naive idiot his father remembered from the last time he saw him, was gone. Long gone. Dead. 

"Heh." Filbrick scoffed, unimpressed as always. "Who'd you swindle that from? I don't need the cops comin' here, ya moron."

"Oh Pops. So little faith. Tsk, tsk." Stanley shook his head and his smirk became feral. "It's _mine_! I get driven around in a limo now. I live in a big ass mansion with servants to cater to me, hand and foot! I got cooks and maids and lackies! I never wear the same thing twice, I eat all the fancy-schamcy stuff as much as I eat all the crap I love. I drink the most expensive liquor...I came _back_ , Pa because I've _finally_ made my millions..." Stan's voice dropped to something rather sinister. He stood up straighter, shoulders back, and glare icy cold. "Have I finally made you proud, Pa? I got everything you ever wanted but never had but wished your children could give to you. I rule with an iron fist. I have control and respect. Money and power. I can get away with...just about _anything_!" Stan smiled, something manic and psychotic. 

"Stanley..." Filbrick raised his hand in a calming manner because though a stubborn man, he wasn't a stupid man. He had been aware of his treatment to his sons. The resentment his wife held for him because of it. But he never truly expected either of his twin sons to return. 

"Oh, look at that! You know which Stan I am!" Stan took a step closer, lifting his cane off of the ground and holding it by the middle. 

In a fluid motion, Filbrick acted on instinct and pulled out his gun and aimed it at Stan's head. Stan's driver/body guard pulled out his own gun and pointed it at Filbrick. Stan stilled, but his body was relaxed. His skin remained cool and sweat free unlike what he was seeing on his father. 

"I always knew you wanted to kill me...your beatings almost did a few times. I bet you're wishing you'd done that before, huh?"

"Get back in your car. Drive away. I'll forget this ever happened." Filbrick said steadily. 

Stan burst out laughing at that. It shocked Filbrick, and distracted him for just a second, but the only second Stan needed to swipe the gun from his father's hands. He smirked something evil and shrugged. "You get guns pointed at you as much as I have and this is second nature."

"Stanley..."

 _Click_.

"Stanley. _Please_."

 _Clank_.

Filbrick let out a sigh of relief when he saw the gun drop to the ground. 

"You think I'd let you die as easily as a gun shot? No...you're going to hurt." Stan said as he donned on his brass knuckles and approached his father. He shoved him into the alley and then slammed him against the wall. He got close into his father's face and growled. "This ain't about me. Over and over again you knew I took all those beatings for Ford. I could take it...despite how weak you said I was, I took your punishment! But you still didn't feel like enough of a man so you had to hurt her! This is for her you sumbitch! This is for all the years you attacked my mother you fucker!"

Stan started punching and didn't stop until his driver grabbed his wrist. Stan glared at him and practically growled, but the driver was used to it. 

Calmly the driver stated. "Someone called in a disturbance...cops are on the way."

Stan sighed, let the body drop to the ground, and straightened his posture once more. The wild maniac he unleashed to give his father hell was reigned in and back to his limo was the calm, elegant, head of a criminal organization. 


End file.
